


Those Hidden Things

by enigmaticblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all know how to work through the pain, even when they don’t have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Hidden Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt, “hiding an injury/illness” for my WILD CARD square.

**1.**

 

“I love a man in Armani,” Natasha purrs, tracing the edge of her mark’s lapel with one finger. The suit matches the opulence of the room, with its cream-colored plush carpet and crystal vases with fresh flowers.

 

Roderick smirks at her, his dark hair artfully tousled, and this close, he reeks of expensive cologne. “I’m sure you’ll love me even better out of it, baby.”

 

Natasha hears Clint making gagging noises in her ear, and she privately agrees with him, but she says, “Oh, I’m sure. I’d love to see what you have to offer, on both a business and professional level.”

 

“Business later,” Roderick insists, his hands seizing her hips, holding her hard enough that Natasha can feel the hard ridges of his heavy gold rings. “We should seal the deal now.”

 

Natasha has no intention of having sex with this idiot, especially since he’s already told her how to find the weapons. “Haven’t you ever heard of anticipation?” Natasha counters, biding her time.

 

“Oh, do you need convincing?” Roderick asks, and then grabs her ass with an insistent hand. He’s probably leaving a greasy handprint on her deep blue silk dress, too, which irritates her—she likes this dress, and she’d wanted to keep it.

 

Clint doesn’t say anything, but she hears Steve make a sound that adequately conveys complete disgust.

 

Natasha has every intention of rebuffing Roderick gently—or at least getting him in front of a window so that Clint can take a shot—but she hears a roar of sound and feels a blast of heat, and Roderick’s body slams into hers, and then she slams into the wall behind her.

 

The world goes dark, and she comes to with Clint’s voice in her ear. “Tasha! Natasha! Respond!”

 

“I’m okay,” she says immediately, before she can take stock physical condition, but after she realizes that the dead weight on top of her is Roderick. “Make sure the weapons are taken care of.”

 

“You sure?” Clint asks, sounding hesitant.

 

“I’m sure,” she insists. “If someone set explosives, they might know where this bastard kept the product.”

 

Steve clears his throat. “I could stay.”

 

Natasha quickly assesses her injuries and decides they’re not life-threatening—dislocated shoulder, bruised or cracked ribs, and a nasty gash on her right leg. “Don’t,” she orders. “I’m fine. I’ll get myself to the extraction point.”

 

There’s some grumbling, which she expects, but she ignores it. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You’re not trapped?” Steve asks, as though he’s hoping for the excuse to rescue her.

 

Natasha looks around. She can’t see much in the darkness, but she _can_ see the doorway, and she knows at least half a dozen ways out of the mansion. Statistically speaking, there’s no way all of them have been cut off.

 

“I’m good,” she insists.

 

“All right,” Clint says, the reluctance in his tone clear. “We’ll see you later.”

 

Natasha shoves Roderick’s body off with one arm, and then kicks off the one high heel she’s still wearing before picking her way through the rubble slowly. When she finds an intact doorway, she braces herself against the jamb with one hand and slams her dislocated shoulder into the jamb.

 

She can’t hide her grunt of pain, and Clint demands, “What was that?”

 

“Nothing,” Natasha replies from between clenched teeth. “It was nothing. I am _fine_.”

 

“Nat—”

 

“I will make it to the extraction point,” she insists. “Shut up and let me focus.”

 

She manages to make it through the front door onto the wide, grassy lawn, and she’s heading for the extraction point—slowly, too slowly, because she’s going to miss the deadline—when Iron Man lands in front of her.

 

“You don’t call, you don’t write, what am I supposed to think?” Stark asks.

 

“That I didn’t want to talk to you?” Natasha suggests snidely.

 

He flips his mask up. “I could take it that way, but I’m thinking you might want a ride.”

 

“Did Agent Barton call you?” she asks suspiciously.

 

Stark offers an insincere smile. “He did not. He called Fury, and we happened to be on standby.”

 

Natasha doesn’t have the chance to ask who “we” is, because the Quinjet sets down in front of them, and when she limps on board on Stark’s heels, she recognizes the pilot as another SHIELD agent.

 

“Good to see you, Somers,” she says when Somers turns in her seat.

 

“You, too, Agent Romanoff,” Somers says. “Agent Barton and Captain America are still en route to the target.”

 

Natasha nods and realizes that Bruce is sitting on one of the benches. “Take a seat,” he says. “Let me check you out.”

 

She’s not sure what he’s doing there, considering that they hadn’t needed the Hulk; they hadn’t even called Iron Man in as far as she knew.

 

“Apparently, I’m the designated medic at the moment,” Bruce says, as though reading her thoughts, and Natasha realizes that her thoughts are showing on her face too clearly. “And Tony made me come. Where does it hurt?”

 

Natasha frowns. “I’m fine.”

 

“Try again,” Bruce replies. “According to Agent Barton, you were caught in an explosion, which means injuries, no matter how minor. Come clean, and I’ll stop bugging you.”

 

She sighs and glares at Tony. “Who put you up to this?”

 

“Hey, Fury was the one who put me on the team,” Stark protests. “I’m taking my job seriously. You’re just going to have to deal with the consequences.”

 

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Fine. But no peeking, Stark.”

 

He leered at her. “Does that mean you’re getting undressed?”

 

“I can still kill you,” she warns.

 

Stark clanks his way to the co-pilot’s seat and deliberately turns his back to her. “Ignoring you now.”

 

Bruce smiles gently. “Come on. I know I’m not a real doctor, but I can at least tell if you need to spend a night in the infirmary.”

 

“I don’t,” she complains, but she attempts to reach behind her back to unzip her dress, and stops cold at the sharp pain.

 

She could have managed it, but Bruce sees her discomfort and moves to sit next to her. “Easy,” he cautions. “I’ve got it.”

 

A moment later, her dress is pooled around her waist, and Bruce is running gentle hands over her ribs. She flinches as he touches a particularly sore spot, and he says, “Cracked, but I don’t think broken. How’s the shoulder?”

 

She remembers not to shrug. “Sore, but not bad.”

 

“I’d say that you need at least four weeks of rest, but I know you,” Bruce says, pulling the straps of her dress up and zipping it. “So, I’m going to say at least two.”

 

“Fury’s going to make me get checked out,” she points out.

 

Bruce shrugs. “Tony dragged me along because he thought I might be able to help.”

 

Natasha glances at the back of Stark’s head, knowing that they’re a matched set these days; she rarely sees one without the other. “I’m sure.”

 

“Let me see to the cut on your leg,” Bruce replies.

 

The cut has already stopped bleeding, but Bruce cleans it out gently, and then tapes a gauze pad over it. “There you go.”

 

She’s struck by the kindness of the gesture, the way Bruce touches her without expecting anything in return. “Thanks,” she says.

 

She has to admit that it’s nice to have a team to watch her back.

 

**2.**

 

Steve blinks up at the sky, dazed, trying to muster up the wherewithal to reenter the fray. The huge, genetically altered lizards trying to level Boston certainly aren’t going to destroy themselves.

 

His head spinning, Steve struggles to sit up, and only then sees a giant claw swiping at him again.

 

Steve has just enough time to realize that he’s never going to get out of the way in time when the Hulk comes out of nowhere, intercepting the claw with a snarl. Hulk lands a punch to its neck with one huge hand and beats it off of Steve without so much as a glance in his direction.

 

“You okay, Cap?” Barton asks over the com, and trust him to notice Steve struggling to his feet.

 

“Fine,” Steve insists. “Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

 

His head is ringing, though, and the world seems to be spinning around him. Steve can’t risk throwing the shield right now, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hit what he’s aiming at, but he’s not willing to let on how bad he’s hurt when his team needs him.

 

Steve catches sight of another giant lizard bearing down on him, and he raises his shield to ward off the blow he knows is coming.

 

He hears the fire of Stark’s repulsors next, and Stark says, “Sit down before you fall down.”

 

“I’m fine,” Steve insists, lowering his shield.

 

“You know, I’ve heard that before,” Stark replies. “Seriously, _sit down_. You look terrible. I don’t want to explain to Coulson that we let you get killed. It would break his heart.”

 

Steve sits, mostly because his legs are threatening to give out anyway. “I must have hit that tree harder than I thought,” he mutters.

 

“A lesser man would be out cold,” Barton assures him. “We don’t think any less of you.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Stark says, but there’s a teasing quality to his voice that tells Steve he isn’t serious, and he stays where he is, guarding Steve. “Just take your time, Cap. Looks like Hulk is handling cleanup on this one.”

 

And that sounds sincere, so Steve leans back against the trunk of a tree and lets his team take care of the rest of it.

 

**3.**

 

Tony rolls over with a groan, his head pounding, and every muscle aching—and for once it’s not due to over indulgence on his part.

 

“What’s wrong?” Pepper asks, emerging from the bathroom.

 

“Nothing,” Tony replies, sitting up. “I’m fine.”

 

Pepper frowns. “You don’t look fine.” She walks over to the bed in her impossibly high heels and puts her hand on Tony’s forehead. “I think you have a fever.”

 

“I do not,” Tony protests. “I’m never sick.”

 

She narrows her eyes. “Uh huh. Where’s Bruce?”

 

“Dunno,” Tony admits. “I think he got up before you did.”

 

She runs her hand over his jawline. “Are you going to stay in bed?”

 

“No, I have some things to get done,” he says vaguely.

 

Pepper nods. “All right.”

 

If Tony had been feeling better, he probably would have recognized that tone of voice, but his head hurts, he’s chilled, and his skin is crawling.

 

A long shower helps a bit, and Tony drags on his most comfortable pair of jeans and softest t-shirt, but he still feels terrible.

 

Tony shoves his bare feet into tennis shoes and says, “Jarvis, start the coffee in my lab.”

 

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis agrees.

 

The coffee is brewing by the time Tony reaches his lab, and he finds Bruce waiting for him. “Hey,” Tony says blearily.

 

Bruce shakes his head. “How are you feeling?”

 

Tony frowns, and then realizes what Pepper’s expression had meant. “Pepper called you.”

 

Bruce shrugs, not bothering to deny it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

 

Tony shrugs. “It’s just a headache.”

 

“You didn’t drink much last night,” Bruce points out.

 

“Yes, thank you, I’m aware,” Tony replies, more snappishly than he intends. “We were otherwise engaged, if you remember.”

 

“Hard to forget,” Bruce replies with a smile. “So, you’re not hung over, which means you’re sick.”

 

Tony glares at him. “I’m never sick.”

 

Bruce raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest. “Uh huh.”

 

“You know, that’s what Pepper said,” Tony complains. “You’re ganging up on me.”

 

He smirks. “You haven’t minded in the past.”

 

Tony has to acknowledge the point, but he’s not going to back down. “I’m fine.”

 

Bruce gives him a hard look, but then he shrugs. “All right.”

 

“All right?” Tony asks suspiciously.

 

“Far be it from me to keep you from your work,” Bruce replies. “If you don’t mind, though, I think I’ll work from here.”

 

Tony looks at him suspiciously. “That’s it?”

 

“You said you were fine,” Bruce replies. “You’re an adult; I’m taking your word for it.”

 

Tony suspects that Bruce is humoring him. “Thank you,” he replies, trying to hold onto his dignity.

 

Bruce shrugs and starts working on his laptop, pointedly ignoring Tony, who doesn’t quite know what to do with that. He tries to work on a problem he’s having with the new hydroelectric engine he’s designing. His math is always right, but he can’t get the equations to make sense at the moment.

 

Tony goes over it and over it, but he feels progressively worse, and he has to blink repeatedly to get the figures to stop blurring.

 

He starts when Bruce’s hands land on his shoulders. “You ready to give up?”

 

“I’m okay,” Tony protests, but it sounds weak to his own ears. “And I have a meeting with Fury today. I don’t have the time.”

 

“Pepper already canceled the meeting,” Bruce replies. “You can reschedule it later.”

 

Tony shakes his head. “We were supposed to talk about the new com systems.”

 

Bruce digs his thumbs into the base of Tony’s neck, working on the tension coiled there. “Fury said he didn’t want you around if you’re sick.”

 

Tony groans appreciatively. “I don’t get sick,” he protests.

 

“Everyone gets sick,” Bruce soothes. “This just proves you’re human.”

 

“If that’s what this is, it sucks,” he grumbles.

 

Bruce’s hand feels cool on the back of his neck. “I think you’ve got a fever.”

 

Tony cranes his neck to leer at him. “I _do_ tend to run hot.”

 

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Come to bed, Tony.”

 

Tony can’t even muster the energy to make a smart remark or issue an invitation for Bruce to join him. Instead, he lets Bruce shepherd him back to bed and doesn’t protest when Bruce insists he take Tylenol and drink a glass of water.

 

But he’s incredibly grateful when Bruce sits next to him, back against the headboard, and one hand in Tony’s hair, scratching his scalp.

 

“Feels good,” Tony admits, curling a hand around Bruce’s knee.

 

“Sleep,” Bruce insists. “You’ll feel better.”

 

And Tony does.

 

**4.**

 

Clint likes being part of the Avengers Initiative for the most part. Even though he’s used to working on his own, being a member of a team has its advantages. When they’re all called in, it’s something big—alien invasion, genetically engineered giant lizards, an army of robots—and it’s a rush to be a part of that.

 

But there are times when Clint hates being reminded that he’s only human, unlike everybody else on the team.

 

Well, excluding Natasha, but she’s preternaturally skilled, and Clint has a hard time believing that she’s _only_ human.

 

The attack on the U.N. Plaza by a bunch of cyborgs—and Clint’s going to have nightmares about the Borg now to add to his blue-tinged nightmares where he hears Loki’s voice again—rises to the level of an international incident, and definitely falls under SHIELD’s jurisdiction.

 

Clint prefers to view things from a distance, but the cyborgs have swarmed the building, and he switches between weapons when he has to as he clears the building floor by floor.

 

They’d split up to cover the delegates and evacuate the building while Stark and Banner worked on hacking the signal that’s controlling or at least directing the cyborgs.

 

“How are we doing?” Cap asks.

 

Clint ducks around a corner, letting the cyborg’s shot hit the wall, and not him. “Working on it. How many of these things are there anyway?”

 

“I’ve got eighteen,” Stark replies, sounding tense. “And bad news, the ones you’ve killed seem to still be operational.”

 

Clint nocks an arrow and uses the long hallway to his advantage, putting a shot through the cyborg’s mechanical eye. “What do you mean they’re still operational?”

 

“They’re getting back up,” Natasha confirms.

 

“We’ve got the delegates evacuated with only minor injuries,” Cap says, “but there are still people inside. Dr. Banner? Stark? How’s it coming?”

 

“Still working on the hack,” Banner replies, sounding distracted.

 

“We’re dealing with alien tech here,” Stark adds. “And it’s taking us longer to figure this out than I expected, but it looks like they’re going to keep coming if we don’t figure this out, so maybe stop distracting us?”

 

Clint checks every office as he heads for the stairs, making sure that no one is hiding before he heads for the next floor.

 

He’s cautious as he enters the stairwell and takes the stairs two at a time. The door clangs open behind him, and Clint turns, an arrow at the ready, and then the door above him also opens.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, realizing that he’s boxed in. Their first shot misses him, and he manages to take out the cyborg coming down from the floor above with a small explosive charge, but the second fires a pulse that hits him in the side.

 

Clint goes down with a grunt, his side on fire, and then the cyborg is on him—the same one Clint shot through the eye on the last floor. He pulls out his Ka-Bar and shoves his knife through its throat, wrenching the knife around to sever its spinal cord, and then he kicks off its dead weight.

 

“Hawkeye!” Cap says insistently. “Report!”

 

Clint presses a hand to his side and curses mentally when he sees the blood, and he’s been injured often enough to know that it’s serious, but not life-threatening. He also knows that his team doesn’t have the time to take care of him right now, not when there are still innocents in the building.

 

“Sever the spinal cord,” Clint suggests. “That seems to do the trick.”

 

“You okay?” Natasha asks.

 

“Fine,” Clint insists. “Heading up to the tenth floor now.”

 

He doesn’t move right away, trying to push past the pain. He doesn’t have time to be hurt.

 

With a deep breath, Clint climbs slowly to his feet, stowing his bow and heading up to the next level, keeping his arm pressed tightly against the wound in his side. He’s going to be limited to his semiautomatic, because drawing his bow is going to be too difficult with his injury.

 

Clint aims at the neck of the next cyborg he runs across and takes it down. He’s getting lightheaded, and he really hopes that Stark and Banner solve the problem soon, because he’s not going to last much longer.

 

“Got it!” Stark finally crows—and just in time, too, because Clint’s faced with two of them, and he’s got nowhere to go. The cyborgs collapse like a couple of puppets with their strings cut, and Clint heaves a sigh of relief.

 

“Report,” Cap says.

 

“I’m fine,” Natasha replies. “I’m on the fifth floor, and it’s been cleared.”

 

“Tenth floor,” Clint says. “Clear.”

 

“Where are you hurt?” Natasha asks.

 

Natasha knows him far too well, and Clint doesn’t try to lie. “I got hit in the side, but it’s not life threatening.”

 

“I’m on my way up,” Bruce promises.

 

Clint slides down the wall and waits.

 

Natasha shows up first. “Idiot,” she scolds him. “You should have said something.”

 

“You were in the middle of something, and you wouldn’t have said anything either,” he replies with a shaky smile. “It’s not bad.”

 

Natasha pulls his hand away and lets out a very salty Russian oath. “You probably won’t die,” she says sourly.

 

Bruce jogs up to them, and judging by the speed of his arrival, he’d taken the stairs at a run, although he’s only slightly winded. He has a first aid kit in hand, and he kneels down next to Clint.

 

“That looks nasty,” Bruce remarks, and rummages in the kit for sterile gauze pads. “But we’ll get you patched up enough to hold you over until we can get you back to headquarters, and you can see a real doctor.”

 

Clint manages a smile. “I thought you were a real doctor.”

 

“I just play one on TV,” Bruce replies with a wry grin as he finishes taping gauze over the wound. “Up you go.”

 

He gives Clint a hand up, and Natasha supports him on his bad side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Next time, call me,” she says.

 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather there not be a next time,” Clint replies.

 

“Then duck faster,” Natasha says without an ounce of sympathy in her voice, but her hand tightens on his waist.

 

Clint has to admit that it’s nice to have the support.

 

**5.**

 

Bruce doesn’t get sick, not since the Other Guy, anyway. He’s eaten questionable food and has drunk water that’s probably contaminated, and he’s cared for people who had communicable diseases, all without getting so much as a cold.

 

He’d honestly believed that the Other Guy had made it as impossible for him to get ill as he had for Bruce to get hurt—and yet here he is, heaving up his guts in the bathroom in his private apartment.

 

“Sir, Mr. Stark has asked me to inform you that he’s waiting for you in his lab. Should I tell him you’re indisposed?”

 

“Don’t tell him anything,” Bruce orders weakly. “No, wait, tell him I’m all right, and I’ll be down in a bit.”

 

If Bruce isn’t mistaken, he hears a slight hesitation before Jarvis says, “Very good, sir.”

 

Bruce thanks his lucky stars that he’d decided to sleep in his own bed the previous night. He’d been working on a project in the lab and hadn’t wanted to disturb Tony or Pepper, and he hadn’t been sleeping long when his gurgling stomach had awoken him.

 

He’s not sure how long he can hide in here before Tony comes looking for him, but Bruce has no intention of imposing.

 

Bruce just hopes whatever this is passes quickly.

 

He curls up on the floor and presses his forehead against the cool tile, trying to get some measure of relief.

 

“Sir, are you certain you don’t require assistance?” Jarvis asks.

 

“Very sure,” Bruce replies. “This will pass. Eventually.”

 

He has no idea how long he’s been lying there—although it feels like forever—when the door to the bathroom swings open and Pepper sticks her head inside just as another wave of nausea has Bruce lunging for the toilet again.

 

She’s waiting for him when he finishes, holding out a glass of water.

 

Bruce rinses his mouth and flushes the toilet, collapsing back on the floor.

 

“You look terrible,” Pepper says. She wets a cloth and presses it against his clammy forehead.

 

“Did Jarvis tell you?” Bruce asks.

 

Pepper shakes her head. “No, I needed you to sign the new contract, and when Tony said he hadn’t seen you, and you weren’t in your lab, I came to find you.”

 

“You don’t have to stay,” Bruce says. “I’ll be fine. It was probably just something I ate.”

 

“Hmm.” Pepper gives him a sharp look. “Do you want to stay here, or go back to bed?”

 

“Better stay here,” Bruce replies.

 

Pepper puts a hand on his shoulder. “That shirt is soaked through. I’ll get you a new one.”

 

“That’s not necessary,” he protests.

 

Pepper shakes her head. “Don’t be an idiot, Bruce. It doesn’t suit you.”

 

Bruce stares after her as she leaves, but he’s not firing on all cylinders, and he’s a little confused as to what she’s doing.

 

When Pepper returns, she has a fresh t-shirt, and she tugs Bruce’s shirt over his head and hands him the new one before sitting next to him on the floor.

 

“You’ve probably got something better to do,” Bruce protests.

 

Pepper brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Not right now. And when I have to leave, Tony will sit with you.”

 

“I _know_ Tony has better things to do,” Bruce says.

 

Pepper stretches her legs out and tugs at Bruce until he’s lying down again, his head on her thigh, his cheek touching bare skin where her skirt has ridden up. “He doesn’t have better things to do today. Do you want me to call the doctor?”

 

“Probably just something I ate, maybe the flu,” Bruce replies, his eyes sliding shut. “Nothing they can do, and it’s not like it can kill me.”

 

“That’s good,” Pepper says, her fingers tangling in Bruce’s hair.

 

He wakes when Tony grabs his arm and hauls him up. “Come on, Big Man. Let’s move to the bed.”

 

Bruce’s stomach roils, and he swallows hard. “Sorry.”

 

“You okay?” Tony asks.

 

Bruce takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

 

“Come on, let’s move you back where you belong,” Tony says. “I got this, Pep.”

 

Bruce glances over at her as she climbs to her feet. “Thanks.”

 

She presses her lips to his forehead. “Get some sleep, Bruce. I’ll see you later. Tony, call me if you need me.”

 

Tony helps him down the hall and puts him to bed— _their_ bed, this time. “Let me know if you need to get to the bathroom.”

 

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Bruce protests.

 

“And who stayed with me when I had the flu?” Tony asks, rubbing his back in soothing circles. “Why didn’t you call me?”

 

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” Bruce replies.

 

Tony rubs the back of Bruce’s neck. “Not possible.”

 

“There’s probably going to be an emergency,” Bruce murmurs.

 

Tony chuckles. “Maybe if you let the Hulk out to play, you’d feel better.”

 

“I’d rather not find out,” Bruce says. “Can you imagine what would happen if the Other Guy puked?”

 

“Fair point,” Tony says. “You’re probably better off sleeping, then.”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce replies, and he drifts off, feeling Tony’s thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck.

 

**6.**

 

Pepper glances up to see Tony limping through the door, Bruce hovering at his side, and the rest of the team following them. Clint has a black eye, Natasha has a shallow cut on the side of her neck, and Steve’s right forearm is heavily bandaged. Bruce seems to be the only one who is unharmed, but he collapses on the couch with the same weariness he displays after every transformation.

 

She tries not to let her relief show; she knows that Tony hates it when she worries.

 

“Are you all okay?” Pepper asks, slipping off her stool and sitting down next to Tony on the couch, and Bruce sprawls on her other side.

 

“Bumps and bruises,” Tony replies dismissively.

 

Pepper’s eyes go first to Steve, then to Natasha. “Really?”

 

Steve holds up his arm. “Minor burn.”

 

Natasha shrugs. “I let a knife slip past my guard.”

 

“I ran into a door,” Clint says, completely deadpan.

 

Tony chuckles. “The funny part about that is the door technically ran into him.”

 

“Explosions are a bitch,” Clint adds.

 

Pepper glances around the group, and they’re all sprawled out, comfortable with each other, their injuries displayed like badges of courage. Tony slumps against her on one side, and Bruce is on the other, and Pepper says, “Why don’t I call for food?”

 

“And alcohol,” Tony says. “In fact, could I get a drink now?”

 

“I’ll get it.” Bruce pushes himself off the couch. “Anybody else?”

 

And Pepper feels Tony’s warm and heavy weight against her and knows that they’re all a little banged up, but they’re going to be okay.

 

That’s all she needs to know.


End file.
